


In not-so-shining armor

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hercules Hansen has been on the run for years, planning a final strike against the Kaiju lords, and now he's got it: kidnapping one of their princes and forcing the Kaiju to make a choice: keep the remaining members of the rebellion imprisoned or let them out and get their prince- and their pride- back safely.</p><p>The catch? Prince Chuck of Sydney</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The 'meme [requested AU Herc and Chuck, with a side of romance cliches.](http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/1613.html?thread=2533197#t2533197)   
> **Important bit:** There are references to parental neglect, as related to the prompt, and sibling unkindness, which are both mentioned mostly in passing as well as knight-era type violence.

With a grunt, Hercules hauls himself over the wall and drops into the castle orchard.

He'd lived up to his namesake when he was younger. His own labors had been simpler, but that’s to be expected, considering Herc is a real human.  The heroes from the myths moved rivers and got turned into animals. Herc couldn’t have done that, even if he’d had the inclination. Raiding Kaiju castles at night, robbing their garrisons on his way out, and playing with scouting parties in the time between had been enough.  
  
 _Fuck, this never used to be so hard,_  he thinks bitterly. He hasn't had to do this in years, and even then, he’d struggled with this part. Most castles were made in the last century, built and designed by untried masons. Sloppy work, full of imperfections a determined climbed can find. Herc’s got a soft spot for those walls- he’s got good memories of them, sneaking over to visit the kitchens. Castle Sydney, though, is one of the kingdom’s oldest, been around since Pacifica first came into being. The Kaiju here have maintained it well. Smooth and strong, its wall is still taller than all the nearby trees- ideal for keeping men like Herc on the outside. Finding two hand holds less than twenty feet apart had taken him a week, another couple days for the third. There hadn’t been a fourth, so he’d had to get creative.

Shaking out his legs, he pauses long enough to miss feeling the weight of his kingdom's survival. He hadn’t appreciated how much harder he’d fought for that. All he's got now is a desperate, half-assed plan and a decade of starving in the woods.  
  
They'll have to do.  
  
His stolen tunic is too short, barely reaches mid-thigh, but it covers the necessary bits as he makes his way to the castle, and it's not as if he's got another choice. Treason lost him more than his shield.  
  
Around him, the castle’s orchard is full of blooming apple trees. He used to like orchards. When they were little, he and Scott had lived near one. They’d spent hours hiding from their father and the chores he’d want them to do. And apple blossoms were Angela’s favorite flowers. He'd sneaked into Castle Canberra's grove just after dusk to propose to her. He can admit that as the kingdom's champion, he wouldn’t have been refused if he’d asked to use it, but he’d wanted to impress her, and asking for permission wouldn’t have made her smile like sneaking in had. She'd cried so hard when knelt down, he'd thought he'd fucked up, accidentally broken one of the social rules she’d always laughed at him for not learning. About to get up and run away, Angie had beaten him to it, hauled him to his feet and put the ring herself. The kiss he’d gotten in reward is still the best he can remember, and he'd thought of Angela and apples as the best things for years.

Now, when he thinks of Angela and apples, he thinks of the apple wood coffin his wife was buried in.  
  
His palms itch with the knowledge of the flint and tinder tucked in his boot. It would be easy to burn the trees down- late afternoon, no one around. But he isn’t here for easy. He didn’t go to all this trouble for some trees. He's got one chance to get this right, and he won’t waste it on the off-chance that the watchmen are as drunk as the rest of the castle guard.  
  
The officer in him twitches at the laziness, hating that this is what the Corps lost to, but they’d known from the start that the numbers weren’t on their side. Simple addition: bigger numbers plus higher morale equals victory. The upper class had paid for an army that far outnumbered Herc’s side, kept it well fed and housed. What little that couldn’t accomplish, the Kaiju had bought Scott. The double loss had taken the last of their energy. No one had had the energy to fight the odds anymore.  
  
Scott. The thought of his brother fills Herc’s mouth with bile. Of all the shit his little brother could have pulled, he’d killed Pentecost. The architect of the rebellion and leader of the Corps, Stacker had been their cornerstone. More than that, he'd been Herc's best friend, one of the few people who’d given Scott respect after- He'd given Herc’s mess of a brother the chance to clean up, taught the bastard how to fight like a proper knight.  
  
Fucking kid and his poisons. He’d come up with a way to imitate the wasting disease that killed Tamsin- he never said he came up with it, but Herc knows his family. That little flourish was Scott.

Tendo had barely kept Herc from running after his coward brother, poking at the arrow wound in Herc’s side and reminding him that cramming the dirty reward money down Scott’s throat wouldn’t get them anywhere.  
  
Had he known Scott hadn’t just murdered Pentecost but handed over everyone in the resistance, Herc would've pushed the little man off, tracked Scott down, and gutted him. Scott had bought his little Kaiju title with innocents, for fuck's sake.  
  
If this goes right, Herc will be able to fix that, get what scraps of his soldiers and their families remain out. He's just got to get into the castle and find the boy-  
  
“Shit-”  
  
Blinking furiously, Herc tries to clear the tears from his eyes. He’s too late; the damage is done, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it. He can barely see, more tears blurring his vision with every shuffling step, and his skin is burning as if he’s back in the desert. He spent years in the dark recesses of the woods. Before venturing out in the middle of the afternoon, he should have remembered the clouds wouldn’t block the sun forever. He could kick himself for forgetting something so damn obvious, but he can't afford the indulgence, too busy fighting to stay upright, reaching blindly for something to lean on. There has to be something…

His hand brushes something rough, and Herc gratefully lean against the tree. Not starting a fire is looking like a better and better decision. He’ll have to tell Tendo about it the next time the little man second guesses one of his plans.  
  
"You there! What are you doing?"  
  
Herc groans. A castle full of incompetents, and he gets caught by the one guard to take his job seriously. Fucking perfect.  
  
"Hey! I asked what you're doing!"  
  
"Somebody's impatient," Herc mutters darkly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.  
  
"Excuse me?" The guard's voice sharpens that, but under that, clear to Herc’s trained ear, he’s unsure. Even with his vision blurred, Herc knows why. He's gotten himself caught by a greenie. It explains why he's not with the others. He hasn't been around long enough to pick up their bad habits.  
  
Giving his eyes one last swipe, Herc looks over and finds the guard squinting at him. He's younger than Herc had thought and as green as they come. The kid shouldn’t be on an outdoor patrol like this, especially not on his own. He ought to be inside, walking a low-risk route with a senior guard. Then again, who’d be crazy enough to try to break into one of the Kaiju’s safest places?

Other than Herc.

The guard’s lost his baby fat, at least- the Kaiju haven't started recruiting children. Yet. The kid's not that far off. Physically, he’s the size of a man, but mentally, he’s still a boy. He keeps shifting, unsure of what to do with his body, and doesn’t have any battle scars to say he's proven himself in combat. His only weapons are a knife, which he’d jammed too far down his boot to reach fast enough, and the too-long spear he's pointing at Herc. The dog at his side could be a problem, but it’s unlikely. The look on its face says it’s a pet, not a hound.  
  
With a jolt, Herc puts the pieces together. This kid’s no castle guard. He’s Prince Chuck of Sydney- who Herc's here to steal.


	2. Chapter 2

Fuming, Chuck storms into the garrison. The guards inside are spread out like children after a birthday party, sleeping off the sugar crash. They're either too sloshed to recognize him or simply don't care. Either way, it's to Chuck's benefit, so he doesn't make a fuss about addressing their prince properly.  
  
They don't move out of his way, though, and he's tempted to stop trying not to step on them the second time he trips over someone.  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he resists the urge to kick the latest offensive limb. He just needs to get to the corner with the quarterstaffs and breeches, and he’ll fine. Just a couple feet more, and he’ll have what he needs.

"My prince," a voice calls, and Chuck twists towards it. One of the few sober guards is picking his way over, staff and breeches held out. There’s a knowing twist to his mouth that raises Chuck’s hackles.  _Argue with our great lord again, did you, Prince? Find out something you already knew?_

Scowling, Chuck snatches the last bits of his patrol uniform and turns to leave, too irritated to thank the man.

The soldier's chuckle at Chuck's third near-fall reminds him of his father.

 _At least Max doesn't laugh,_  he thinks as he strips off his good breeches and yanks up the spares. They're a little too loose and a lot too long, but he crams his feet back into his boots anyway.

Max is sniffing at one of Sydney’s finest, no doubt wondering what the awful smell the passed out man’s covered in is. "Come on, boy," Chuck calls, dropping his breeches on the senior guard’s chest. He heads for the perimeter, pleased to hear the metallic clinking of the dog’s collar as Max trots to catch up. At least  _someone_  listens to him around here.

Of everyone in the castle, Max is the only one who doesn't have any trouble understanding Chuck. He’s quiet when Chuck has to think, bouncy when it's time to play, happy to curl up next to Chuck when he can't sleep, makes stupid faces when Chuck's upset, and never takes Lord Sydney’s side.

Twenty years and the only thing his father hasn't twisted is Max.

"You don't think I'd be a bad knight, do you, Max?"

The dog makes a snuffling sound. Chuck takes it as agreement.

"I'd be great at it. Like the Gauges- only better, because I'd stay loyal."

Max grunts.

"What? I could be!"

The dog doesn't make any more noise, but he doesn't have to. Chuck knows he's a good fighter, but his father refuses to let him take charge of anything more than Max. Whenever he asks for a chance, even something little like drawing up the weekly duty roster, he's told he's too... something. Too young. Too weak. Too eager. Too  _Chuck_.

"Guess we'll never know, though, will we?” he grumbles. “The old bastard won't even let me try."

Max gives him a look that's too close to his oldest brother's  _Aw, what’s wrong, baby Chucks?_  face for Chuck's taste, then runs away to play in the leaves.

Chuck’s still laughing at Max's frustrated growls when he notices the stranger.

One of the few advantages of growing up in a castle is that everyone knows everyone else, and Chuck knows this isn't one of their servants. It takes him a moment to be sure, because the stranger had looked like a woman at first, but the closer he gets, the surer Chuck feels. The man looks familiar, sort of- a relative of someone's, maybe? Approaching cautiously, Chuck surveys the intruder and decides there's no way he belongs here. He's wearing a cook's uniform, but Chuck knows it's not his. Chuck’s family's servants are all given appropriate clothes, yet the man’s wearing a woman’s tunic.

Chuck's favorite cook, Marlene, reported one of hers stolen last week- looks like he found the thief.

"You there!" he shouts, tightening his grip on his spear. "What are you doing?" When he doesn't get a response, Chuck tries again. "I asked what you're doing!"

The man says something too low for him to hear, but Chuck knows it wasn't an explanation. "Excuse me?"

Chuck watches warily as the man takes his hands off his face.

He's old, with deep wrinkles. His hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck and full of knots, the color indeterminable. He’s definitely not a servant. It's against kingdom regulations for a man not of royal standing to have hair longer than his forefinger.

Chuck can't help but wonder how he got in. The gate is the only entrance, and it was shut an hour ago. The only other option is the wall. How could someone so frail climb it? Even their best men had failed to climb higher than halfway, and they'd made so much noise, Chuck's father had declared them safe. Yet this mess of a man climbed it and did so silently?

"My Prince." The man bows smoothly, gaze slipping down. The action is smooth, practiced. Someone had trained him well. "My apologies. I was on my way to the kitchen."

Chuck looks at him in confusion, no idea what to do with that. He'd fought through the soldiers' training, just like the others, but their teachers had only told them how to kill when attacked, not to play games with half-naked lunatics who bow better than any castle servant Chuck’s ever seen.

Fuck- what if he actually is crazy? Chuck should catch him if he is, but then what? Drag him to the prison? The physician? What if he struggles? What if he bites? Shit- what if he gets Chuck sick? There are men who drink the desertmen's poisons, losing their minds with every draft, and every child knows a Caneman's bite can kill...

Before he can decide, the man leaps forward. Chuck moves to block him, but his spear is clattering to the ground. Something hard wraps around his throat, and Chuck struggles, trying to fight his way free. The crazy man says something in Chuck's ear, but Chuck can't hear it over his vision going dark.


	3. Chapter 3

Herc takes a moment to celebrate his catch, but he doesn't have time to waste. The boy will be awake again soon. Herc has to get them out of Sydney before that happens. The problem is, he hadn't thought he'd get this far, and his escape plans are messy at best.

The boy's dog- a funny-looking thing, wrinkly and fat with a scrunched up face, as far from a hound as a dog could be- grunts, looking up at Herc like it's not sure what he's doing with the prince. Herc isn't sure himself. Weak in the face of the dog’s confusion, he finds himself leaning over to scratch its ears.

Herc's always liked dogs. They don't mind if he smells bad and can't cook. They’ll still lick his face and fall asleep beside him if he's forgotten to shave.

Rumbling a question, the dog gives Herc a long look. Whatever it sees, it gets to its feet and trots off, stubby tail wagging.

With no better plan, Herc hauls the prince over his shoulder and follows.

* * *

"Put me down!" Chuck shouts. He's tired, though, and can't be bothered to waste energy on a proper yell. Even if he had more, it didn't do him any good before. His head hurts from all the noise he made, and the intruder from the castle is carrying him over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. A few steps ahead, Max barks, and for a moment, Chuck feels a rush of pride. Max is on his side, even if he hasn't tried to fight Chuck's captor yet. Then he looks between the crazy man's legs and watches him pass Max a chunk of meat.

"Good boy."

"What? No! Not 'good boy.' Bad boy! Spit it out, Max!"

Max's expression makes it clear what he can do with that plan, and Chuck sighs. Even his his best friend isn't loyal to him. Maybe his dad was right. If Max won't listen to him, how can he expect a battalion of men to? "Traitor."

"You do know he's a dog, right?"

Chuck blinks, surprised to be acknowledged after so long, but doesn't hesitate to snap, "'Course he's a dog. That doesn't mean he should take food from strangers who've kidnapped his master and are carrying him to his death!"

"I'm not going to kill you," the man says blandly.

"Oh, well, thank you. That's very reassuring. How about putting me down? A show of faith or whatev-"

"No."

Chuck had figured his captor would say that and, lacking a comeback, falls quiet. Until, "What's your name?"

The man makes a questioning noise.

"Your name," Chuck repeats. "You know who I am, I'm sure, but I don't know who you are."

"My name doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," Chuck argues. "Names always matter." His got him kidnapped.

"Not mine."

"Yes, yours."

"What are you, four? Drop it."

"Twenty, actually. And not until you tell me."

His captor mutters something under his breath about someone named Angela and curtains. "You really won't let it go, will you?"

"Nope."

Sighing heavily, he says, "Hercules Hansen. Yes, that one."

Chuck's internal victory dance crashes to a halt. What? This is Hercules Hansen?  _The_  Hercules Hansen? Chuck's childhood idol, the man he'd worshiped for years? The first non-noble Knight Pinnacle? Who completed a one-man suicide mission into the Western Kingdom, winning their soldier games and securing the return of stolen Pacific townspeople?

Who broke his oath of fealty to the Pacific Kingdom and Chuck's heart in one?

"You're lying!"

The man shrugs, shoulder pressing into Chuck's roiling gut. "If you say so."

It's impossible. There's no way this scruffy man is Chuck's hero. None. "How the fuck are you alive? It's been years since the Breach!"

"Same way most men do. Found a place that was safe enough, got some food..."

"Everyone swore you went down!" Chuck protests. "They even have your sword on display in the capital!"

"Heard they set up an exhibit 'bout the Corps in the capital. 'A Reminder to the Malcontent' or something, isn't it?" There's a grunt and a sudden change in orientation, and Chuck belatedly realizes they'd been climbing a hill. Well, one of them was. "'S a shame to waste Lucky like that," the man continues. "Old metal, sure, too heavy for your rapier-types, but even an infant could do damage with 'im."

Chuck scowls. He'd thought the same thing. "Let's say you are Hercules Hansen- it's something to call you, at least- but you still haven't explained how you're alive. Our men have been looking for you for years."

Hercules shrugs again. "They're lazy and poorly trained. It's not hard."

"Yet you lost to them," Chuck is quick to remind. Those "lazy and poorly trained" men are his friends, sort of.

"Even a bad force can win when it dwarfs its opponent," comes the sharp reply. "They weren't this bad back then, and with a mercenary force on the front lines, what else would have happened? Get a big enough hammer and you can open any door you look."

"Oh, come on!"

"Come on, what?" Hercules growls. "What were you expecting, princeling? Me, marveling at the great skill of your leaders- setting fire to crops and killing noncombatants? That your knights are perfect, true examples of chivalry?

"Look at yourself, boy! You think I could've grabbed you if your guards had been on watch?"

Chuck blanches. No one's ever talked to him like this. If he's managed to rouse his father from his books, he screams till he's red in the face. His brothers don't bother talking, just throw him around and remind him he's the smallest of the lot. He can deal with those, but this... This is quiet and terrifying. Hercules' body tenses and shifts under him, and there's no escaping the knowledge that despite his appearance, Hercules Hansen is still more than capable of killing him.

The grip on his legs tightens but nothing more.

* * *

After capturing his target and navigating a sore spot, Herc had the thought the worst had gone by. Chuck went silent after Herc snapped at him, and that should have been it. Turns out, Herc had underestimated the truth in the rumors of Prince Chuck's attitude.

He's like a two year old, if two year olds could outsize Herc. Once he figures out his life isn't in immediate danger, Chuck gets noisy. First he whines, unhappy with everything, from the way Herc walks to how bright the sun is. He sulks when Herc stops responding and picks at him, trying to provoke a fights. When that fails to get a response, Chuck makes it physical, clawing at Herc's legs and squirming hard enough to wrench Herc's shoulder. He really shouldn't have put the kid on his bad shoulder.

Barely an hour of that leaves Herc with a headache as heavy as the Kaiju treasury and a short fuse.

"For fuck's- Would you knock it off!" he finally explodes, catching the prince's knee with his face once too often.

"Only if you put me down," Chuck says primly. That he's dangling over Herc's shoulder doesn't seem to have dampened his self-importance.

"Not happening."

"Then get used to it," Chuck singsongs. "Old man."

Herc doesn't "accidentally" swing the boy into a patch of stinging nettles, but he wants to.


	4. Chapter 4

At some point, Chuck stops fighting and braces himself with the backs of Herc's thighs. It doesn't make walking difficult and keeps him quiet, so Herc lets him be. When he's not being a pain, Chuck's kind of sweet, and when he sleepily wriggles closer, Herc feels a tug in his chest.

* * *

Chuck's shaken awake, but when he opens his eyes, the world's still black. "Hmmm? Where are we?"

"Corps underground bunker," Hercules grunts.

That's... really cool. He used to beg his brothers to bring him news of the fights and always wondered how the rebels could disappear so fast. It's ingenious. No one would think to look _down_. It was probably Pentecost's idea- No, no, it would have been Newton's. The first of the kingdom's scientists to defect and the craziest in Pacific's history. He would have needed Gottlieb to make them work, though. Chuck met the mathematician once when he was little. Gottlieb had been as unimpressed with him as Chuck had been thrilled with the pictures he'd brought to convince Chuck's father to fund whatever project the man had been working on.

Biting his tongue- he hates the rebels, just like every good soldier should hate his enemy- Chuck asks, "Why're we here?"

"I'm hungry, and sleeping here is safer than out there. Wolves aren't picky when food's scarce."

Dinner? His stomach grumbles, and Chuck feels his face heat up as the sound echoes around them. "How come it's so dark?" he asks quickly, relieved when Hercules doesn't mention the noise.

"You can't use torches underground. There's only so much air." The old rebel snorts. "There're some chemical candles left, but until we get to 'em, you're gonna have to put up with the dark."

Chuck tries to hide his groan. He's never liked the dark. There's no way to know he's safe when he can't see what's around him. Everyone in the castle knows, from Marlene to his father, and he's been teased about it for as long as he can remember. The guards had always given him the night shift while he was in training, and his brothers enjoy finding ways to force him out of bed in the middle of the night.

"Not afraid of the dark, are you?" Hercules asks, too easily.

"No," Chuck snaps.

"That's a yes, then."

"Fuck off. I'm fine in the dark."

Chuck feels Hercules shake his head. "We'll get some light again soon."

"I just said I'm not afraid of-"

"Your body says you are, little prince. People who're fine don't cling like kittens."

Belatedly, Chuck realizes he's holding onto Hercules' hips so hard, his fingers have gone stiff, but he can't find it in him to let go. It's weirdly reassuring, feeling Hercules' body under him, and Max's panting is echoing around him, the dog regularly finding his way to Chuck's hands and nuzzling them, in search of scratches and pats. It's a switch from when he first got Max and would search for the puppy at night, wanting to be sure his little puppy was all right.

He isn't so reassured he forgets to protest the comparison, though. "I'm not a kitten! And I don't _cling!"_

His whole body shakes with Hercules' burst quiet laughter.

* * *

When he wakes the second time, Chuck has to fight down a surge of fear. Where is he? How'd he get here? Why's it so dark? What's going on?

It passes quickly, Max's familiar snores from his feet a sign that he's in danger and a low groan from his left reminding him. He's been kidnapped- by Hercules Hansen of all people, and he really needs to stop letting a crush from when he was six years old cloud his thinking.

The last thing he remembers, he was still over Hercules' shoulder, the man explaining what chemical candles are and why they're better than torches. Something about fuel and suffocation, or another equally morbid thought. But his voice had been so low and pleasant and Chuck's body so pleasantly warm, he'd been happy to listen anyway, even though he'd been half-asleep again...

How he got from there to an almost comfortable bed and how long he'd been asleep, he's got no way of knowing. The only source of light, those chemical candles, are tall and still burning, so either he hasn't been asleep for long, or they don't burn like regular candles. Neither is any help.

It'll be difficult, escaping when he was asleep the whole way down, but there's no way he's staying put. Hercules doesn't seem like a bad man, but he betrayed Chu- his country. The bounty on his head is higher than the cost of most castles.

Even if he tries to catch him, Chuck's younger and faster. He'll be home in time for lunch.

They probably haven't even noticed he's gone.

* * *

It's no lighter outside the makeshift bedroom, only colder. Chuck couldn't risk bringing the blankets with him, and gooseflesh is prickling along his arms and legs. Max huffs unhappily beside him, and Chuck has to agree. This was... not a good idea.

For a crazy moment, he considers turning back. Hercules is probably still asleep, curled up with that sad little sheet he insisted was plenty. He wouldn't have to know Chuck had tried to leave.

The moment passes quickly. He made a decision; he has to follow through. All he's got to do is hope turning right instead of left was a good idea, stay quiet until he's through the exit, then run a couple miles and he'll be back at the castle where he belongs. Where he's treated like the prince he is and not an idiot child.

(He is treated like a child there, though, and Hercules has had the decency not to patronize him.)

Fuck, he's actually getting _attached_. His mom was right. Chuck needs real friends, ones his age, who are noble like he is, not a bunch of guards who'd rather play in the mud than be gentlemen. And there's that pretty girl in the nearest castle, too. She might not be half boring. (He's met her, though, and she is. Who doesn't like swordfighting?)

Shaking his head, Chuck ignores yet another of Max's whines. Fuck's sake, one chunk of meat and now Max is a Corps-sympathizer.

* * *

The bunker's double doors swing shut behind him. They don't slam, but the noise is loud enough to disturb a group of... something Chuck doesn't stick around to find out, patting his leg for Max to follow. The moon is full and bright enough to light up the woods enough to avoid running into trees, but it doesn't do anything to make him less cold. They've gone too far for him to find his way back to the bunker, even if he were desperate enough to try it, but the longer he and Max pick their way through the vines and underbrush, the harder his shivers get.

"Should have brought a damn blanket. There were four. Four nice, warm blankets..."

Max whimpers loudly. Chuck glares at him. At least his dog has _fur_. Chuck can barely claim to have enough hair to shave his face, let alone have a permanent, all-over coat to keep him warm. "We're not turning back." Max whimpers again. "We're not! Besides, I think that bunch of flowers looks familiar..."

He really should have listened to that girl and gotten a sniffer dog. And insisted on learning how to track.

First, there's a low snarl that definitely doesn't belong to Max. Second, there's a body that definitely doesn't belong to Max. Third, there's an entire pack of wild dogs, and they're in the mood to eat him.

The air is a shock to his lungs, and he's gasping from the start, feet scrambling in his boots, struggling for purchase in the leaf-slippery earth. The dogs aren't far behind, yipping in excitement and nipping at his heels. Max is nowhere to be found, but Chuck figures that means he got away, can't afford to wonder if they got Max, if he's just got his only friend killed. Max shouldn't have to hurt because Chuck made a stupid, stupid mistake.

The headstart he had is rapidly disappearing, and he shouldn't waste effort looking over his shoulder, but he's got to know where the dogs are. The farther he runs, the denser the trees get, and soon it's too dark to see the dogs, but still he looks back, sure he's about to feel paws on his back-

_Shit!_

He trips over a vine and goes flying, landing first on his shoulder, then he's tumbling, rocks and dirt flying around him in a whirl. He's going downhill, he realizes, with no way to stop himself without getting hurt even more.

At least he can't hear the dogs anymore.

* * *

When he finally comes to a stop, he doesn't dare move. His body hurts worse than he's ever had to deal with, and he doesn't trust himself not to cry out if he moves even an inch.

It feels like he stays like that for hours, shivering and cold and too terrified to move, but the world's just as dark as it was when he left when he hears snuffling and a cold nose is pressed behind his ear. Chuck groans, relieved Max is safe but not prepared to fend off an excited bulldog. He risks a bit movement to tuck himself tighter and tries not to whimper at the pain that makes.

"Fucking dog, what did I tell you?" Chuck blinks, and it's still too dark to be sure, but that sounds like Hercules. "I knew I should've tied you to the damn bed, but I thought you weren't so stupid to run off like that. I could go another day without sleeping, but you seemed interested in surviving. It's the Kaiju in you, isn't it? Fucking stupid, the lot of you." Chuck would disagree, but ow. Also, it's his own fault that he almost died. "Let's have a look."

Chuck shakes his head, eyes shut tight. If he stays still long enough, the pain will go away. It has to...

"I can't help if I can't tell what's wrong, princeling." Hercules sounds concerned, but Chuck knows how easy that is to fake. "C'mon then. If you've hurt your neck, I need to know."

"No, don' wanna move." Even if he wanted to, which he _doesn't_ , it hurts too much.

"Have it your way. But when the pain is worse later and you've done something permanent, no complaining."

The grass rustles as Hercules gets up.

Chuck tries to get comfortable but only manages to get himself another flare of pain. "Wait!"

The grass stops rustling.

"My ribs. I'm lying on 'em..."

For a moment, nothing happens. Then there are hands on his arms, and as much as Chuck would like to hit him- Hercules is to blame, too, because Chuck wouldn't have gotten hurt if he hadn't been _kidnapped_ \- he's glad Hercules came back. His hands are gentle as he checks Chuck over, and Chuck can feel himself blushing. No one's touched him like this since he was little.

He doesn't want the hands to leave. They're huge and calloused, and even his mother hadn't made him feel this kind of good. Like he's small. Fragile. Important.

"On the count of three, I'm going to pull you up," Hercules says softly. "All you've got to do is breathe. I'll do the work. Ready?"

"Yeah?"

"One?" Hercules settles beside him, one hand sliding under Chuck to grip his waist and the other tentatively settling on his shoulder. It doesn't hurt too much, so Chuck nods. "Two!"

Chuck is yanked up, hard. "You said three!" he shrieks.

"I lied." Hercules doesn't sound apologetic anymore. "Now shut up. You're distracting me."

Chuck shuts up. He does open his eyes, though, and watches the other man's face darken. He tries to figure out why Hercules looks so sad but comes up with nothing.

"It doesn't feel like anything's been broken. Could be you've sprained your shoulder, and you've got spots where you're swollen. I can't be sure in this light, but it seems you've bruised yourself."

"Bruises don't hurt like this!"

"They can if you've damaged the bone." There's still the warm pressure of hands on his skin, and Chuck finds it hard to focus on what the other man's saying. They're distracting, those hands, and so good, so, so _good_. "I suppose you can't walk?"

Chuck nods. He hasn't tried, of course he hasn't, but he can guess. "You aren't going to carry me again, are you?"

"How else would you propose we get out of here? You can't very well sit on your dog and ride out."

"So you're going to throw me over your shoulder again? Like a- a troll! You've caught your goat, and now you're talking me back with you!"

"I was thinking something more like this-" There's no time for him to protest before Chuck finds himself in the air again, but this time, he isn't a sack of potatoes. There's one arm around his back, pressing his less bruised side against Hercules' chest, hand on his hip, while the other holds his legs up, hand splayed against Chuck's outer thigh.

There's that feeling again. Small and delicate, even though he isn't. He's always wanted people to respect him, to think of him like they thought of Hercules: strong, dependable, the best, and he's hated being taken care of and fussed over since he was little. But like this, right now, it's almost as good as the first time he scored a point against the training master.

He can feel in the flex of Hercules' belly that they're moving, and as he rests his head on the man's shoulder- covered by something rough, disappointingly, he'd been hoping to feel skin- he hears Hercules sigh. "Trolls don't eat goats."

"Yes, they do. Everyone knows that."

"No, they eat disobedient children."

There's something odd about that tone. Suspicious, Chuck tips his head up. Wincing- bad idea, really bad idea, really fucking _bad_ idea- he scans Hercules' face. The moonlight's still too weak to see well, but it's enough.

"Was that a joke?" Chuck demands. "Did you just- Did you just tell a joke?" It's possible that he's babbling.

"It was, and yes, I did."

Chuck nods, maybe, possibly, to have an excuse to rub his nose against the big man's shoulder. He smells good. Like... good things. Very good things. "Jokes are good. How come I don't hurt so much anymore?" Definitely babbling.

"Endorphins. When you get hurt, in case you're in danger, your brain tries to block the pain so you can get to safety."

"Oh."

Chuck considers that. Sort of. He feels like puking, but he's also more comfortable than he's ever been. It's a problem. A distracting problem. "Tell another."

"What, you want jokes on command?"

His shoulder-pillow rumbles when Hercules talks. He can't tell if it feels good or not. He'll just have to make him talk more. Then he'll know for sure. "Joke."

"As you wish, princeling," Hercules grumbles. "A priest, a vicar and a witch are out to dinner..."


	5. Chapter 5

Making his way back through the bunker, boy still shivering in his arms despite the heavy blanket now wrapped around them, Herc considers his plan. He'd sent messages by eagle before he grabbed the prince- a necessary risk, both to force him to make a move now and to get rid of the damn thing and its hateful midnight squawking- to both the his father's castle and the capital, in case the Kaiju head of Castle Sydney got any ideas about leaving his son to save face. He'd said the prince wouldn't be harmed so long as the Kaiju didn't do anything stupid. If he brings Chuck back looking like he does now, they'll kill Herc on the spot, public execution be damned. His head on the end of a pike'll do as easily as it would on a rope.

At least he hadn't set a date of exchange, so if the prince doesn't hurt himself again, it's possible Herc won't look like a monster.

Chuck mumbles in his sleep. Good or bad, Herc can't tell, but there's no sign of fever, the shivers easing as he warms.

The dog- Max, isn't it?- hasn't stopped whimpering since they found the boy. Mostly he follows a Herc's heel, but any sound from his master his him butting his head on Herc's leg, tripping over himself he's so busy watching the prince. It's sweet, if a bit annoying. Herc would rather not fall over him and drop the kid.

Idly, he wonders what the dog sees in him that he's so fond. True, Chuck doesn't seem like a bad one, even if he does have Kaiju blood, but Donovan used to say that about Scott, too.

_Your shadow's bigger than most, Hercules. It's not easy to be your brother... He's not a bad one... Scott's Just a little lost, is all. Give him time, son..._

_He wasn't lost when he traded people's lives for a title._  Angry though he is, Herc's had too long to think about his brother to leave the thought there. Scotty was a good kid, always laughing and playing and making someone smile. It wasn't until Herc returned from his first campaign, too old to play games with his little brother and uninterested in letting him tag along, that Scott started getting into trouble.

Maybe he's Herc's fault. Maybe it's all his fault.

It's a bad place to go, but the more he looks at the little prince, the more of Scott he sees in him. So sure of himself and pushy, it's easy to forget he's young and stupid. Just like Herc and Pentecost used to be, if his old friend was ever truly young. Twenty years old, Scott never had to fight for his life, and Chuck's only begun to get an idea.

Maybe it's that he's getting older or the years he's been an outcast, but when he looks at Chuck, Herc doesn't feel scorn like he had when he looked at Scotty's grinning face. He's glad Chuck's got this old without running off to war, and Kaiju or no, Herc would like the boy to go the rest of his life without that knowledge.

It's the kind of thought Pentecost used to lure him into. He'd hide the strong stuff after challenges, knowing Herc would come looking, and make Herc sit with him, unfailingly intolerant of Herc's sulking. He'd wait until Herc had finished his futile search for what he came for, then guide him outside, where they'd spend an hour or two talking about whatever Pentecost thought they ought. "The problem isn't that you're a Hound," he'd said once, when Herc mentioned how similar they were. "Though you are right. Fearless on the battlefield, terrifying in your lack of fear, unlikely to grow old and stupidly, stupidly loyal. Just like every other Knight Pinnacle since the first. The real problem, Herc, is that you've grown old too fast. Knights and Hounds are raised to live for and depsite the bloodlust, but you look like you're weary of it already. Perhaps you are."

With the prince curled close, Herc wonders whether his friend knew how right he was. Probably did, the bastard.

"Too bad you're not here now," Herc mutters, reaching the bedroom door and considering how to get it open without waking Chuck. "And not just 'cause I could use another set of hands."

He doesn't use the bunker's heating except as a last resort. With Chuck on the edge of shock, an exception seems like a good idea, but as he shifts his weight to one foot to press the handle down with his free heel, nudging the door open with his toes, he remembers the piping broke last week and he hadn't had time to fix it. There's nothing to do about it now. He'll just grab the extra blankets from the medic's quarters when he fetches the wound kit. He can only pray balms can't go bad.

Setting Chuck on the bed as gently as possible, Herc sighs, unable to get away. The boy's still got a good hold on his shirt. A gentle tug gets him a frown and Chuck's other hand latching on as well, and really, Herc is cold and tired, too, so he cuts the situation off before it gets ridiculous. If the prince wants to hold onto Herc's dirty shirt, let him. There ought to be an extra somewhere.

Any little thrill he may or may not feel about Chuck clinging to Herc's clothes like they're special is only a result of so much time alone. That's it. Herc's under no obligation to examine it or the heat in his gut as he thinks about Chuck keeping it and waking up wearing and nothing el-

Box. He took his shirt off so he could get the med box and treat Chuck's wounds. Box, box, box...

* * *

Pain in his ribs wakes Chuck from his uneasy nap, and only a large hand grabbing both of his and holding them tight while he thrashes keeps him from striking Hercules in his panic. On his back, hands held down firmly, he can only stare, wide-eyed, up at Hercules and all the skin suddenly on display. His shirt's gone, and Chuck's childish imagination couldn't do the sight justice. Pale skin flushed pink and pulled taut over lean muscle, freckles everywhere, more than anyone could possibly count. Chuck wants to try.

"Easy, Prince," the man rumbles, thumb rubbing soft circles against his wrist. _His hands are fucking huge. When did he get so big? He looked so thin..._  "Breathe."

"What-" Chuck's voice cracks, and he coughs, wincing at the scrape against his dry throat.

"There's water here. I'll get it if you promise not to hit me."

Chuck nods quickly, relieved and unhappy when Hercules lets go. He ignores the weird feeling and sits up slowly, wincing at the warning twinge in his side, while Hercules settles back in a chair Chuck hadn't known was there. Bending forward, he reaches out and comes back up with a cup.

_Even more freckles on his back._

The cup's pressing into his hands, and Chuck grabs it gratefully, hiding behind the rim. Why's he so interested in freckles all of a sudden?

"So, what's the verdict?" he asks when he's sure his voice won't crack again.

"Congratulations, princeling." Hercules' words and tone don't match. Nothing good, then. "You've got bruised ribs. Plenty of smaller injuries as well, but the ribs and your shoulder are the only ones worth concern."

"How long?" Chuck groans.

The dark look from earlier is back, but Chuck doesn't know how to ask what it means or if he even can. He's not sure he likes it.

"A month at the earliest. More likely two."

"Two months?" Hercules winces, but _two months?_ "What'm I supposed to do for two months?

"Recover."

"By doing what, exactly? I'm not gonna sit on my ass for twelve weeks, Hercules!"

"Don't fucking ask me! What do you expect me to do? Wave my hand and magically heal you?"

"How about you take responsibility! If you hadn't kidnapped me, I wouldn't have been chased by wild dogs or fallen down a mountain!"

"You think I don't know that?" Hercules lurches to his feet, seven feet tall and furious, the god of war Chuck used to imagine he'd be. His voice is raw, like he's been shouting to be heard over the fighting, like he's spent weeks giving commands only to come home and find Chuck needs them more. The good-bad fluttery feeling in Chuck's stomach comes back at the thought of him and Hercules and home. All of it together is... Shit, he doesn't know whether he wants to reach out and _touch_ or curl up and hide. "I'm not an idiot, boy! You think I've never had a campaign go bad? You think I've never lost someone because I made the wrong call? You think-" The shouting comes to a stop, but Hercules' voice keeps right on rubbing Chuck the very right but wrong, very, very wrong way. "Your dog woke me up, little prince, but I found you on my own. I carried you back on my own, and I'm doing what I can to make you heal right on my own."

They're both panting, but for different reasons, such different reasons, staring at each other in silence until the former knight snaps, "And it was a hill at most!"

Chuck doesn't mean to laugh, not when there's a furious god of a man glaring down at him and his body is begging him to stop resisting and just lie back and spread his legs already, but that's what comes out. A hysterical giggle that becomes a chuckle and makes his body hurt. Which only makes him laugh harder.

He's barely holding onto the cup, water sloshing dangerously close to the top, but just as he brings his other hand up, Hercules joins in. Chuck's got no chance.

It starts with a short, sharp bark that looks like it startles Hercules more than Chuck and Max, who's been eyeing the bed like he thinks he could get up if only he moved fast enough. The look on his face is confused, as if he'd forgotten he could laugh. Exactly like Max when he finds a treat he hadn't expected.

Chuck's ribs are screaming, cup long tipped over and water cold in his lap, but he can't stop, just watches Hercules' confusion give way to outright laughter. It's lighter than Chuck would have thought, softer. His eyes actually _sparkle_  when Chuck thinks to look, with deep wrinkles at the corners as he changes back from god to human. He wheezes when he inhales, and it hits Chuck that the stories only talked about Hercules as a warrior, the first on the battlefield and the last to leave. They never mentioned what he was like outside the armor.

Turns out, Hercules Hansen is- well, he's _friendly,_ in a way Chuck couldn't have expected. He's not sure what it means. Should he be happy because the man he worshiped isn't a humorless bastard, or should he be angry because Hercules is an oath-breaker and traitor to their people who doesn't have any business laughing? Is it okay to want to haul him down and listen to his laughter rumble around in his chest, or is he supposed to ignore it and go back to hating him? Not that he's ever actually managed to do that.

Laughter finally stopping, Chuck slowly stretches out on his back again, glancing over at Hercules. It's taken Chuck longer to come down, but Hercules is slumped in his chair, breathing hard. "You all right over there, old man?"

Damn, his ribs hurt.

The look Hercules throws his way is sour. "Anyone ever tell you you're a mouthy bastard?"

"It's come up once or twice."

"Once or twice, my ass." With a snort, Hercules sits back up and gives Chuck's hip a nudge. Chuck's grunt of protest doesn't dissuade him from doing it a second time. "Go on. The dressing needs to be put back in place." Chuck doesn't move, weighing the risk and reward of doing it himself. "It'll hurt more if I have to do it."

Grunting with the effort, Chuck reluctantly pushes himself onto his side, back to Hercules. He doesn't appreciate the low laugh from behind him but doesn't have a chance to object before Hercules' hands are on him again, tugging bandages Chuck hadn't noticed and slathering something over his back.

"'S cold!"

"Don't complain. You'll heal faster with it than without."

"Cold!"

There's a grumble that sounds an awful lot like, "Liked him better unconscious."

"Hey- Ow! What was that for?"

"You're the one who squirmed!"

"Still!"

"So help me, princeling, if you can't be still, I will tie you up!"

"But-"

"Mouth included!"

The tone more than anything has Chuck pulling his lip between his teeth and biting down. He knows what that tone means. _Bad_ and _angry_ and _disappointed_ and _you're a bother_ and _I don't have time for this_.

_Be a better son._

He clamps his teeth tight around his tongue and digs his fingernails into the bed as Hercules continues smearing his back and chest ("Your legs aren't so bad. They'll do better left on their own for the night") with cold goo that stings, holds himself as still as he can when the bandages get wrapped around his ribs.

"You're not feeling any pressure, are you?" Hercules asks suddenly. Mindful of the order to be quiet and still, Chuck makes a small noise to say no, he's not. "Good. Speak up if you do. We're not binding your chest."

A second noise- shit, not like he can keep his throat still- comes out unbidden, a question.

"Why not?"

Chuck risks a nod.

"'Cause you need to breathe, little prince," Hercules explains gruffly. "To do that, your lungs need room to expand. I'll find you bark for the pain, but you've got to remember to breathe deep. You'll get an infection otherwise, and the chemists didn't leave the medics here with medicine for that. Just bark and medical alcohol. Worse than northern moonshine, that."

"Surgery?" Flinching, Chuck expects a reprimand, but none comes.

"'Course. Take an arrow to your shoulder, get tar on your leg or a wound that needs cauterizing, you don't want to feel that sober."

"Have you ever had any of that? No, of course you have. What was it like? Did you-"

"What did I tell you about moving?"

Chucks stills immediately, flushing as his body trembles. Once, a warning. Twice, a punishment.

"There's a good boy... I had more than most but less than I should've. Got myself stabbed in the arm, but the medic on duty gave me the crawlies so I tended to it on my own. Choi shouted till he was purple when he found out, but there wasn't much he could do about a wound two months past."

Hercules continues talking, but Chuck only half-listens. No punishment? Not even a mention of being disobedient? _Nothing?_

Everyone knows Knight Hansen's thoughts on respect and obedience. "Infractions must be corrected swiftly. Do not hesitate. Be sympathetic to the situation if you must, but never forget you aren't teaching soldiers. You're correcting animals. Show weakness or indulgence and they will seek it out. They will learn to evade discipline, rather than accept it as consequence." It's part of a speech no one remembers the rest of, and all soldiers and knights have had it shouted at them at one time or another. Chuck can recite it backwards and forwards in three languages.

So what's going on?

* * *

The worst part of rank, Herc reflects, is the attention. There isn't a marshall or general in the world who hasn't been disastrously misquoted or had a sentiment stripped of context. If they're lucky, nothing bad happens, they never find out and other people get to straighten the record for them. If not, they have to deal with the kind of damage Herc's been trying to control. Lazy trainers took a few choice sentences from an embarrassing display of his bad temper (He'd caught a guard sleeping off a night of celebration while on watch and reacted... poorly, but it's wasn't as if he could let it slide. Dumping him over the side of the wall hadn't seemed so bad at the time, and it wasn't as if the wall had been all _that_ tall), called it a speech and used it to make their jobs easier.

Once he found out, Herc went through the kingdom for six months, seeking them out and throwing challenges at them. More than the Kaidanovskys felt was appropriate ("Really, Knight Hansen. If you must throw a temper tantrum, at least have the decency not to put the country at a disadvantage for it," not that he'd fought all that many). He'd followed their silent order to back off.

At Chuck's sudden imitation of a statue, a kick in the balls he'd thought safely buried in the past, he thinks he ought to have pushed harder.

Fucking Kaiju.

But what can he do about it now, short of retraining him?

Halfway through looping a bandage around the prince's chest, he remembers what Angela used to do when he returned from fighting with a wound and no desire to do anything more than stare at the wall. He's never been half so good at it as her, but if he can just get Chuck to loosen up a little... "You're not feeling any pressure, are you?"

The kid's quiet for long enough to have him concerned, but he manages a sound Herc's mostly sure means no.

"Good. Speak up if you do. We're not binding your chest."

A questioning sound at that. Herc tries not to smile. "Why not?" he asks, to make sure.

Chuck nods, and it's fucking adorable. It shouldn't be, but the way he's doing his damnedest not to move even though that's what he wants reminds Herc of a stray kitten. He wants the food in Herc's hand, they both know he does, but he doesn't want to get a kick for it.

"'Cause you need to breathe, little prince," he tells him, annoyed at himself for wondering if Chuck would pur if Herc petted him. "To do that, your lungs need room to expand. I'll find you bark for the pain, but you've got to remember to breathe deep. You'll get an infection otherwise, and the chemists didn't leave the medics here with medicine for that. Just bark and medical alcohol. Worse than northern moonshine, that."

"Surgery?" Chuck flinches at his own question, and Herc bites back a demand for his trainer's name. _  
_

"'Course. Take an arrow to your shoulder, get tar on your leg or a wound that needs cauterizing, you don't want to feel that sober."

"Have you ever had any of that? No, of course you have." Chuck starts to wiggle in his excitement, and Herc watches in dismay as the wrapping starts to slide apart. "What was it like? Did you-"

"What did I tell you about moving?"

Chucks goes still the second Herc snaps at him, trembling. There isn't a man alive who wouldn't hate himself for doing that to him.

_So much for not kicking him. Fuck._

"Good boy," Herc soothes, mentally scrambling for the answer to Chuck's question. "I had more than most but less than I should've." The tension in the prince's body only grows, even as Herc shares a few highly sanitized stories.

_I'll find the man in Castle Sydney and gut him myself._

Herc sighs to himself. It's not that simple, and he knows it. Frightened kittens don't become friendly pets because the person who left them out in the rain is in the stocks. Seven year old Scotty brought back enough of them for that to be clear. He'd sit in the kitchen and cuddle the little things, looking at Herc with big eyes until he gave in and went looking for the person who left them out. Their mother nearly killed them when she found out, but the sight of her husband carefully unhooking a ginger kitten from his beard distracted her long enough for them to escape.

It was satisfying to make a few people mewl like his brother's pets, though.

"Listen close, princeling." Chuck shivers, and Herc clenches his fists to keep from stroking his arm. "You're not a soldier here. You're-" _My prisoner?_ If anything, the reality is worse, "-You're my guest. The only reason I'll hit you is if you hit me first. Then I'll hit you back, and make no mistake. I'll do it harder than you can."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Of course you're not." Herc pats Chuck's knee, pleased to hear the snippy tone back in the boy's voice. "I'll grab the bark, if you think you've run away enough for one night?"

"Why? Don't think you could catch me a second time?"

"Don't think I'd bother, more like," Herc growls. So much for pleased. But he's got to draw the line somewhere. It may as well be here. "Just for that, you're chewing it raw."

"Oh, hey, no," Chuck pleads, "Come on, Hercules. I was just kidding-"

"There's the shirt you wouldn't let go of earlier and dry breeches by your feet." At the door, Herc pauses and looks over his shoulder at the sulky prince. "I'll be gone ten minutes. I expect your ass in bed when I get back."

Chuck shouts a familiar suggestion about Herc's mother and her profession, but Herc's already out the door, concentrating on his mission to grab the bark and not on guessing whether Chuck is changing and if he is, what Herc's going to do when he gets back and finds the kid not only clinging to Herc's shirt but wearing his clothes.


	6. Chapter 6

Chuck is startled into awareness by Max hurtling up beside him. He blinks up, blearily recognizing the happy expression on Max's face as he pants down on him, full of doggy pride for getting up all on his own. Still half-asleep and too weak to push him off, Chuck lifts a corner of the blankets and lets the dog scurry under. He doesn't appreciate the cold, wet fur pressing against him or the smell of wet dog, but the slobbery kisses Max slathers his face with are hard to resist.

"Yeah, yeah, good morning to you, too, handsome. Don't suppose you brought breakfast?"

"He left that to me, actually," Hercules grumbles.

Startled, Chuck twists to look over his shoulder. "Where the hell did you come from?" he demands, easing himself the rest of the way over so he can glare properly. Max grunts unhappily and shuffles close again, cruelly pushing his cold nose into Chuck's back.

Hercules is giving Chuck a _look,_ one of the "I sneaked in and out of castles for years and never got caught/I'm bigger than you, but I'm not a fucking troll" kind, as hands him a small tray with a bowl of... something. Gray with questionable-looking lumps, it could be soup, could be sauce. Could be from today, could be leftovers. From the days of the rebellion, maybe?

"Is that...?"

"Breakfast," Hercules says shortly, setting bowl and tray on Chuck's lap on his way to his corner. To do what, Chuck's got no idea. It's not as if there's anything more than a pillow and an already folded blanket over there.

Wrinkling his nose, Chuck tilts the bowl suspiciously. Max pokes his head up, snuffling at the bowl with interest, but Chuck elbows him away. Just in case the situation isn't as bad as he thinks, he's not about to let Max drool in it.

There's a spoon mostly submerged in the "breakfast," which erases the last of Chuck's faint hope that Hercules is joking. It's not water for washing his hands. It's food. The least appealing he's ever seen and the most likely to kill him, but probably still food.

Chuck reaches in and pulls the spoon out. It doesn't look like it'll get him sick if he eats off it, but as he lifts it into the air, liquefied _something_ dribbling off, he's not so sure he wants to risk it on slop.

"What _is_ it?" he asks, turning away to watch Hercules refolding the blanket. He can't help noticing how pink the bigger man's ears are. He must have gone outside with Max.

"I just told you it's your breakfast," comes the mild reply. As if Hercules isn't suggesting Chuck eat something they wouldn't serve prisoners. "Eat up before it gets cold."

"No." Chuck puts the spoon and bowl back on the tray, pushes the lot towards Hercules. Max whimpers.

"What was that?" Refolding complete, Hercules carefully returns the blanket to the floor.

"I said no. I'm not eating that."

Hercules drops the pillow and folds his arms, expression souring. "Why's that? Not good enough for you?"

"Good enough? Good _enough?_ Look at it! I've seen pigs eat better! Even during winter training we never had to eat... I don't even know what what the hell this is. Calling it breakfast makes it sound like food- which it definitely, definitely isn't."

Brow raised, Hercules purses his lips. "People who can't get their own food shouldn't complain."

"I'd rather not eat than get poisoned," Chuck mumbles.

"Poisoned? No, little prince, you're no use to me dead."

"Then what?" He'd thought he'd wait for the former knight to explain what's going to happen on his own, but the not-knowing has been gnawing at Chuck- clawed at him all of yesterday, filled his dreams with dread during the night, and now, awake again, it's cold and heavy in his belly. "All I know is you dragged me from my home! You've said you don't want to kill me, but that's really not comforting! What am I supposed to do when I don't even know what you want from me? Just sit here and- and what? Trust you?"

A muscle twitches in Hercules' jaw.

"Seriously?" Chuck snaps, too weak to get up like he wants, too broken to stand half a chance in a fight, but he wants one regardless. "Why would I do that? In case you'd forgotten, you're not the champion anymore, old man! You're not even a knight! You betrayed us, just like every other Jaegar bastard rotting in prison! But worse, because you were the fucking Pinnacle! You were the face of the entire kingdom- you swore to be an honor to it! Where's the honor is deserting, huh? You're a traitor to the Kaiju, Hansen, and you're a traitor to me!"

He doesn't know when Hercules moves, but he knows it's too late to escape when when a hand grabs him by the hair jerks and his head back, contempt unmistakable on Hercules' face. He doesn't let go when Chuck whimpers, doesn't seem to hear Max's worried growl.

"Don't," Hercules snarls, too close, too close, _too close._ "You want to know why you? Convenience. You were the closest. Your family's inattention was a bonus. What do I 'want' from you? Nothing. My expectations? Keep your mouth shut, do as I say, and don't forget: I don't want to kill you, but if you become a problem, I will."

Neck straining, Chuck starts to tremble. He bites his tongue to keep quiet, left hand squeezing one of Max's paws.

"I would have your tongue out for talking to me like that, but my wi-" The fury breaks, but the blank look that takes its place is worse. "Children say stupid things when they're hurt. Lecture me again, however, and I will explain to you every oath the Kaiju have broken, every honor they have trampled, every child they have punished as I cut it out.

"If you behave, little prince, I will return you to your castle in no worse condition. If you don't, maybe you go home mute, maybe you go home in a box. I have no preference."

Shrugging, Hercules scans Chuck's face coldly. "Do you understand?"

Chuck makes to say yes, decides he doesn't want to risk it, nodding hurriedly instead.

"Good." Still eyeing him coldly, Hercules takes the tray off Chuck's lap. He looks at it sadly. "You don't want to eat? Fine. I'm not your father. It's not my job to force you."

Chuck watches him walk away, not bothering to look over his shoulder, and shivers. He doesn't know where that came from. No one ever told him Hercules was so-

 _Human?_ asks his father's voice. _You were too busy worshiping him to hear anything that wasn't praise. Hercules this, Hansen that. You wrote letters to him, for fuck's sake. Asking him to him save you from the horrible life of a prince! What a thing to ask a lowborn. They're reckless and violent, Charlie, not animals._

Chuck shakes his head, chest aching.

Beside him, Max snuggles closer.

* * *

Herc pours the gruel into a box with shaking hands, fuming.

"Thoughtless, overprivileged leeches, the lot of 'em." Scraping out the last of the meal, he curses the Kaiju and their pointless rebellion. "Ruined a kingdom for some fucking cows. _Cows."_ Of course their gutless spawn are spoiled. Four stone walls around them, no one to fear, they've already forgotten how easily the Jaegars got around them.

The first thing Donovan had taught Herc and Scott was how to survive. Right after he lost them in the wood and they almost got adopted by a bear- at least, that's what Herc told his brother the bear wanted to do... How safe does Castle Sydney's Kaiju think he is? The Jaegars aren't a threat anymore, but they were never the biggest one. The Kiwis hate the Kaiju more than the Jaegars ever did, and the Western Kingdom... Shit, they're barely human.

Herc isn't proud of grabbing Chuck, the ease of the action concerning. He's needs to get the surviving rebels out, but he's never trusted getting his way without a fight. Climbing an "insurmountable" stack of stone doesn't count as a fight. There should have been guards and knights- hell, a regiment of Castle Sydney's army waiting for him.

What kind of man leaves his family so vulnerable? What kind of father lets his son out of his sight without teaching the boy how not to get himself killed?

A hopeful whine from the doorway has Herc shaking his head, shaking off the dark mood and in refusal. "No."

Claws tick across the floor, and a warm body flops down beside him, leaning hard against his leg.

"Piss off. You got your share."

The dog ignores him, hungry dribbles already running down his chin as he looks up at Herc hopefully.

"I just told you-" Herc sighs. "You want it? Get your ass up on the table, and it's yours."

Max makes a low, unhappy noise.

"You're just like your boy, you know that? Noisy 'cause you want something, but the second you have to work for it, you give up." Despite his words, Herc tips some gruel into the makeshift bowl he'd found earlier. The dog scrambles to his face in it, and Herc has to smile. _Fucker eats loud enough even Yancy couldn't sleep through it._ The anger from earlier doesn't return, despite the bad taste in his mouth. The Beckets were good boys...

"At least you're cute, huh?" He shouldn't, but Herc puts the rest of Chuck's breakfast on the floor. The dog's happy yip is worth the rations. "You'd make a bad Hound, but that's not so bad. You're too good to waste out there."

Half-buried in his third serving, Max glances up at him. The look on his wrinkly face is uncomfortably human. _You sure you're still talking about me?_

Herc doesn't answer, suddenly busy figuring out what he's going to do with Chuck. If he were one of Herc's men, they'd head outside and work on strengthening his mental skills. Tracking, memory, watching the others- injuries weren't reason enough to stop their men from training.

But Chuck isn't one of his. He's a Kaiju, and Herc's got to stop thinking about what a shame that is. There are people who'll forget where they came from, and there are people who can't. The Kaiju can't change and don't want to. Chuck's tantrum is proof enough of that. A guest- A prisoner, and he's still running his mouth like they're in his castle and Herc's a servant.

...which gives him an idea.

* * *

Herc drops his haul onto the chair by Chuck's bed. "Brought you something. Two months' distraction here, easy."

"Books?" Chuck asks, looking at the mountain of literature strangely.

"What? You can read, can't you?"

"Of course I can! It's just..."

"Just what?" Herc can feel himself getting redder the longer the prince pointedly doesn't look at him. "Out with it!"

"You can't, can you?" Chuck flushes, squinting at the floor. "Read, I mean. You're illiterate."

"I can read," Herc rushes to correct. He isn't illiterate. He can read his name, the orders at the top of royal decrees, numbers up to... One hundred? Important things like that.

"So you've read these?"

Herc definitely hasn't. "I said I _can_ read, not that I like to."

"But you know what's in them? What they're called? Since you can read, after all."

Gut sinking, Herc flicks a glance at the stack. One of them has _Pentecost_ on the spine. There are a couple with the two advisers' names. The rest... look the same. Scribbles on top of scribbles, all wrapped up in dull-colored covers. Except the scroll, and that's only special because it's got a bit of gold wrapped around it. Pentecost said it wasn't important when Herc asked, but as he looks at Chuck, who's still looking anywhere but at him, he supposes his friend might have said that to save him the embarrassment of having to find someone to read it to him.

"I've never been bothered to look," Herc answers. Slow and careful. Not giving away more than he has to. "Why?"

The prince finally looks up. His face is bright pink. "Well, most of those are record books. For keeping track of strategies and tactics, you know?" Herc's really gotten himself in the shit this time. "And that one with the gold foil around it- the vellum?" Herc nods, more to get this over than desire to know. "That's a noble's mandate, isn't it?"

"'Isn't it?'" Herc catches himself looming and quickly backs off. He came back to keep Chuck from doing something stupid, not start another fight. But still... Sore spots don't need poking. "You've made your point, princeling. I don't know what these are. There's no need to rub salt in it."

* * *

"So you really can't read?"

Chuck hadn't known what to expect when Hercules came back, but if he'd given it any more thought than _please don't hurt me_ , "gifts" wouldn't have come up.

It's not his fault Hercules is illiterate and doesn't know what's in the books. In all honesty, they only look like the remedy to a sleepless night, the kind of boring lists his tutors would have crowed over. He'll thumb through them just in case, but the interesting bit isn't written on a vellum. It's the implications of this gap in Hercules' knowledge. Chuck's itching to poke around- he's just got to avoid pissing the man off.

"No, I can't- Don't get excited, all right? Most knights can't."

That can't be right. "But how'd you become a knight if you can't read? Weren't you tested on your lessons every year?"

"I was." Hercules smiles at him, sharp and proud. "And like every illiterate before me, I faked it."

"You faked- How can you fake _reading_?" Chuck demands, dragging himself upright. He's already got a bad feeling about this- like his world's about to fall apart and there's nothing he can do about that, because he started it- and pulls his blankets up around his head, like a cocoon. He can look out, but wrapped up as he is, he's safe.

"It's not difficult. Castle nobles are book learned. They help when their pages' teachers are busy and give advanced lessons to their squires. They don't have much use for people who don't want to understand building bridges and how to make things pretty. When testing time came around, a couple coins in a book-learner's pocket got you someone to take it for you."

"You _cheated?"_

"I wasn't about to waste time with things I couldn't use!"

"Aren't they useful, though?" Hercules frowns, so Chuck hurries forward. "I mean, don't you sometimes have to cross rivers and things?"

"Sometimes, but there are already bridges where we need them. If the crossing's gone, then it's because I've burned it down myself."

"Why would you do that?"

Hercules' expression turns fierce. "Because the bridges I burn are for retreat, and I'll die before I do that."

"You- That's crazy!" Chuck exclaims, remembering an incident from his youth. His first math teacher had said, "Knight Hansen is an animal with a sharp stick- Just you watch, Charles. That man will ruin us if we don't stop him." Chuck had yelled and refused to have his lessons taught by someone who didn't love their Pinnacle, because he couldn't stand hearing anything bad about the man.

Looking at Hercules now, "animal" seems like a good fit.

"That's it? You just... didn't go to school? You spend your time burning bridges and happily lacking a skill even children have?"

"Just? Remembering a two hundred word missive you've only heard once, repeating it verbatim- and with the same inflection the sender used, too, even when they don't speak our language well- to as many as twenty men in separate places, without missing classes, and without getting caught by someone who wants what you've been told- that isn't easy, little prince. Page-runners are on their own. No maps or guides. No protection from wearing a noble's color. Just luck and, if they're smart, a knife."

_"A knife?"_

Hercules shrugs. "It's that or get stabbed, and I've never wanted a hole in my gut."

 _How can he say it like that?_ "And no one had a problem with that? Children could just walk around with weapons?"

"Only pages with recommendations from reliable sources are allowed in." Reaching up to scratch his cheek, Hercules winces." I doubt they would have looked hard, even if they'd bothered."

"So they weren't worried you'd stab someone? At all?"

"How many eight year old boys do you know who want to stab people? They were strictly for self-defense, in case we got into trouble in a rough part of the city."

Max waddles into the room, finished exploring the bunker on his own and panting loudly. He looks between Chuck and Hercules, unhappy to have to choose between the chair, where the rebel's sitting, and hauling his body back up onto the bed.

Patting the bed, Chuck watches Max hesitate, then launch himself at the bed.

It takes him a couple tries, but the dog manages to get enough of his weight on top that he doesn't slide right back down.

With his dog settled between his legs, Chuck turns back to Hercules. "So none of them ever stabbed someone?"

"Every couple years one goes bad," Herc admits. "It's usually a teacher they go for, though, and no one who can't handle an angry boy is allowed to teach, so it never comes to anything."

Chuck frowns, tugging his blankets closer still. "Not a servant? Aren't they- Wasn't there a page who got in trouble for pulling a knife on one?"

The laugh that grates out is ugly and makes Chuck flinch, but he gets the feeling it hurts Hercules more than it makes his own skin crawl. "No, not a servant. There's no such thing as 'a servant,' after all. They're a close group, more than soldiers or knights ever get. You hurt one, you hurt them all, in your castle and the rest. that's a bad place to be."

"So he didn't hurt a kitchengirl?"

"No, he never touched a kitchengirl." Rolling onto his back, Max sighs happily, and Herc smiles sadly at the blissful face the dog is making. "The kid you're talking about, he wasn't a page. He was a squire. And he didn't stab anyone. It was more complicated than that."

The bed creaks as Chuck shifts. Complicated means there's a story. "Was he in your group?"

"No, he was younger."

"Then how can you know so much? No one I asked knew anything- and they weren't lying!" he adds hastily.

Max rumbles unhappily, kicking Chuck's leg with one of his. Chuck dutifully reaches out to scratch the dog's belly.

"I know because I knew the boy," Hercules says slowly, when the only other sounds are coming from Max. "He wasn't a bad one- that's important, Prince. He wasn't a good kid, but he didn't set out looking to hurt anyone."

"So why did he?"

Hercules considers the question. And considers it, and considers it. Chuck tries not to look too eager.

"Greed and impatience," the former knight says eventually. "He wanted things."

_He wanted things? What the hell does that mean?_

As if he'd read his thoughts, Hercules sighs. "Servants of the kingdom can own tools, houses if we have families. Knights can have squires, but they don't own them. No point when your job is getting killed."

"Oh." The... problems from earlier seem to be gone, but Chuck doesn't want to risk letting Hercules dwell (though he does now know why Marlene lives in the castle but her sister lives with her husband). His head is still throbbing from the hold Hercules had on it. "So the squire wanted to own stuff. How'd that get him in trouble?"

A tight smile flashes across the knight's face. "Treason, princeling. The throne doesn't like disloyal servants."


	7. Chapter 7

"No way." Hercules looks at him sharply, but come on. Chuck is the son of a Kaiju. The youngest son, with the least training, but he knows the law. "Traitors get hung or life in the maze- always have. Hanging Day and Burial Day are open to everyone. If that squire broke kingdom law, he'd be in the records."

"What were you doing, looking through those?"

"It was part of my politics lessons. My tutor required an oral recitation of Pacifica's history; that includes traitors and their punishments. We both know you're only asking that because you're trying to distract me from the real question. Why wasn't he in the records?"

Hercules scratches at his jaw, narrowed eyes falling shut as his fingers tangle in his beard. "Only if he was sentenced to life."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Besides being a child?"

"A child who betrayed his kingdom!" Chuck snaps, struggling onto his side. Farther down, Max rumbles unhappily.

"Careful with the-"

"I'm fine! Just answer the question!"

The rebel's face darkens, and Chuck tenses, preparing himself for the blow that's sure to follow.

It doesn't. The chair scratches on the floor as Hercules sinks back into it. His eyes, fixed on Chuck, are sharp, searching. He doesn't speak, and Chuck doesn't know what he can say that won't get him in more trouble. Max tumbles off the bed, leaving Chuck on his own to see if Hercules will pet him.

He does. Absently, one of Hercules' big hands settles on Max's head, fingers scratching the dog's ears. He doesn't look away from Chuck, and try as he might, Chuck can't help but look back. His decorum teacher said he ought him to look down he's caused offense. Eyes on his better when he's apologizing, eyes on the floor when he's waiting. Bow his head and submit, acknowledge the other man's dominance. Hide his face if he make it show contrition.

The lessons never took, but he remembers them. They were interesting, a glimpse into the world his sisters lived in.

If they can do it to survive, Chuck should be able to, too. But he can't. He knows he should put his pride aside and bow his head, but there's no looking away from Hercules. Whatever the man wants, Chuck's got no choice but to let him look until he finds it.

"A man of standing vouched for him." Gaze sliding away, Hercules shakes his head. "The squire and his brother took half the punishment: one was exiled, the other sent to the Western Kingdom."

It doesn't sound fine to Chuck, and from the look on his face, Hercules isn't fine with it either. The squire should have died for what he did. You betray your kingdom, you die. That's the rule. No exceptions.

_Unless you take the crown for yourself..._

Hercules' voice startles him, demanding, "The bark wore off, didn't it?"

"Huh?"

"The bark," Hercules repeats, getting to his feet, "it wore off. You're in pain again."

"Yeah, but-"

"There's more in the med box. Don't move; I'll be back."

With that, he's out the door, Max at his heels.

Chuck stares after them in confusion. "Isn't the med box in here?"

* * *

Two laps around the tunnels and a snack for the dog later, Herc returns to the bedroom. Chuck's eyes are heavy on him, no doubt noticing that Herc's come back empty handed. Herc had other things on his mind, like working off the twitch that story always creates- down in his flesh, too wide and deep to fix, the same twitch that's always gotten him in trouble. He refuses to feel embarrassed for that as he reclaims his chair.

"No box?" Chuck asks, overly sweet.

"No box."

Chuck smirks, reaching under the blankets and pulling out a familiar-looking box. "Had some trouble finding it, didn't you? I wonder why."

"Funny," Herc drawls, too tired to rise to the bait. "Let me guess- you 'found' it right after I left?"

"Nah. It was under the chair."

"Didn't I tell you to stay put?"

"I got bored." Chuck half-shrugs, still smirking widely, but Herc catches the wince behind it.

"So you've had the box, but you didn't get the bark out?"

That knocks the smirk off the prince's face- takes a bite out of Herc's mood on the way, too. They, he and all the other Jaegers, lost to Chuck's parents. One generation back. All it's taken is one round of kids, and this is what the fuckers who toppled the world Herc had made for himself have managed.

Chuck's a pretty sight- even if he weren't the first person Herc's seen in years, he'd catch his eye- especially with that adorable blush pinking his skin, smart and big enough that he could have been a good soldier or squire (though he'd have to break his habit of backtalking before he attempted either, but then, he might not have picked it up in the first place if he'd been trained by someone competent). He could have been most anything. Yet here he is, in Herc's scrap of earth, captive and digging himself deeper because his mouth runs faster than common sense. Because he's an easy target, has been since Herc first considered him.

_Fuck's sake. He's lucky he's cute._

"I, uh, I didn't want to?"

"Are you asking me or telling?" Herc asks, biting back a laugh at Chuck's embarrassment. "It's hard to tell."

"Well, maybe you should check your hearing, old man."

Herc grinds his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. Very _lucky he's cute._

"Careful with that, little prince. Old men can't carry boys after they run off and hurt themselves. It'd be a shame if you had to walk back to your castle in this state."

Chuck blanches. "You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't," Herc reassures him, lets the smile out this time. "We're headed to the capital- Sydney's the wrong direction."

* * *

He's quick to look away, but when Herc glances up from his contemplation of the med box, he catches Chuck staring at him and has to bite his tongue. _Too obvious that time, princeling._ It's become a bit of a game, catching the boy staring. What Chuck's looking to win, Herc doesn't know, but for him, it's an exercise in patience and judgment. He's got to time it just right- can't look up too quickly or Chuck will only make a face at him and can't be too slow or Chuck will look away on his own, taking away the fun part of the game.

They've been at it for almost two hours straight. Neither's moved except to coax the dog over for pats.

Chuck's cover is feigned interest in one of the books. He's doing a piss poor job of it. Herc's almost insulted- Chuck either can't be bothered to put any effort into his part or doesn't think Herc understands enough about reading to know when it's being done wrong. Even illiterate, Herc knows you've got to look at the pages to know what's written on them. He lets it slide, though. Sloppy acting aside, Chuck's putting effort into his part. It took Herc a while to catch on, to realize he wasn't imagining the feeling of someone watching him. Chuck had been doing exactly that, quietly studying him until Herc finally thought to look over at him.

Once, Herc got curious and winked. He got a fascinating sound for his trouble, with a flare up of the low-level blush Chuck still hasn't managed to fight off completely, but had to wait more than ten minutes for Chuck to risk peeking at him again.

Watching Chuck pretend he's interested the book, Herc lets himself bask in his latest accomplishment: bright red ears. Angie used to laugh when she got him hot under the collar- the damn woman had a knack for finding the worst times to make him go red and had no problem doing just that. He'd never understood the allure- it's just color, hell- but on Chuck, he can't help but wonder at it. If he wanted, Herc could reach out and touch his ear, feel if it's as hot between his fingers as it looks.

He could, but he doesn't. His hands stay right where they are, on the sharp corners of the little box, far from the temptation on the bed.

It's just a reaction to having someone close for the first time in so many years. That's all. He'd think the same if it were Tendo or Pentecost sitting next to him, and the bit of him that disagrees doesn't understand the situation.

Irritated, he wriggles in his seat, trying to find a position that doesn't put pressure on his hip. He's almost got one when Chuck pipes up.

"Getting uncomfortable, old man?"

So much for the quiet. Herc gives up on finding a comfortable way to sit in favor of fixing Chuck with a glare. "What have I told you about that? I'm not old."

"That's not what your face says," the kid mumbles, looking back down at the book.

"My face says watch your tongue, Prince," Herc corrects easily.

Jaw working, Chucks falls silent. Herc almost wishes he hadn't. A fight's just what he needs to feel less embarrassed about losing his temper earlier, necessary as it was. Chuck needs to remember he isn't safe with Herc. He's a Kaiju in a Jaeger's den. He won't be coddled because he gives Herc a smile and said sorry, but there's pushing to make a point and there's pushing just because he's bigger. Herc was easily doing the second. He shouldn't have put his hands on Chuck. He knows better than that. He was trained to be better than that.

Worse, he knew Chuck would ask and still didn't plan on what he'd tell him. He grabbed the kid from his home; of course Chuck's going to want to know what's to come and what Herc wants from him, and of course he's not going to be polite about it. He's still calling Herc old, isn't he?

This kind of recklessness gets good men killed. Luckily for him, Herc left good behind years ago.

The look on Chuck's face was gratifying. Herc's supposed to be on the front lines, trying not to rip that obnoxious plume off his helmet, shouting at the enemy. He was Pinnacle, the force behind the throne, another in the line of men who'd lead Pacifica through four hundred years of victory. He and Scott were supposed to die there, always thought they would. At least, Herc thought he would.

Shit, but he never thought he'd actually miss it.

He's just got to wait for the eagle to return with the replies and hope he can work out enough of them from the few words he- "Hey! Careful with that!"

Chuck guiltily turns to face him, but he doesn't let go.

"Princeling."

Chuck clutches the page harder. Herc crosses his arms and bites his tongue. He doesn't get up. He doesn't make Chuck let go, satisfying though that would be. He's got a better idea.

"Five." Chuck's nose flares. "Four." Herc glances down long enough to check which book the boy's prepared to ruin. "Three." One of Pentecost's journals, by the looks of it. "Two." "One- now give it over."

"What if I say no?"

"Don't."

Chuck takes the warning. He holds his hand out and lets the journal be snatched away. Safe once more, Herc checks it for damage, ignoring the sulking prince. Chuck will be fine. Their moods change constantly. He'll grow tired and return to getting under Herc's skin soon enough. Pentecost's books can't do that. Any damage done to them will last as long as they do.

They're all Herc has left, the only proof his wife and their friends existed. He wasn't the sort to give tokens, never understood the obsession with "leaving marks." He regrets that now, and he'll be damned if he loses any of what little remains. He knows it's overly sentimental, his insistence on keeping them ridiculous when Herc can't read. Herc doesn't need to know what the letters say. He knows the shape of them, that Stacker's hand wrote them, and that's good enough.

Besides, he promised to keep them. Pentecost didn't tell him why, just that Herc should keep them in tact. A great job he's done of that so far.

He wants to shout at Chuck. He _should_ shout at him. But he can't work up the anger. Twice Herc's let his best friend down. Twice he's let himself be drawn in by careless, thoughtless boys. He could blame the first time on blood, not that he does, but this is on him. He gave Chuck the book, put it right in his hands. He ought to have kept the journals to himself. He's lucky this is the most damage Chuck's done. Unless it isn't.

 _Damn it._ "This was a bad idea."

"Just let me explain."

Herc shakes his head. "No point. The books go back, and you recover in bed."

"Hercules, please-"

"No."

Gathering up the other books, Herc carefully settles them against his chest. Someday, he'll learn. Someday, he'll remember he's not his father. No one owes him anything- except Tendo, and even that's debatable.

Chuck lets him leave in peace. If Herc were in the mood, he'd be thankful. He's not in the mood, and he's far from thankful.

A pretty girl and a job that kept them fed, maybe a couple kids or a dog, that's all he wanted. He never asked to be Pinnacle- didn't even ask to be a knight. But his best friend said he'd found them a sponsor, swore the man would take on Herc's little brother as well, and anything had to be better than spending his life milking cows and cleaning up after horses.

It was for a while, Herc has to admit.

Damned Kaiju. He _liked_ that life.

The door to the marshal's quarters groans as it swings open. The map of the capital is still hanging on the wall where Herc hung it, the knife Stacker threw at it during a fit still lodged in it. The blade was one of Herc's before Stacker ripped it from its sheath and stuck it in the castle wall. They'd laughed about it later, a man's temper tantrum and his friend's refusal to get in his way, but they never got around to taking it out. It's part of the bunker now.

Returning the books to their home under the desk, Herc catches sight of Tendo's holy book. His gut twists hard; seeing it without the little man nearby isn't right. Tendo treated it and the bracelet, the one with the flowery name, like parts of himself. They went where he did. For him not to have his book...

They used to talk about the teachings, mostly to pass the time on quiet days. Tendo's kept the old faith and swore Herc would, too, if he'd stop getting caught in the details. _A knight's life is one big ritual, Hansen_. _Did you ever think you'd burst into flames if you broke your vows? Has your tongue fallen out because you lied? Of course not. You don't keep the vows because of crazy threats. You keep them because it feels right. I keep mine because they feel right. Affirmation is your equivalent of worship. For some reason, you prefer getting hit until you pass out to sitting still for half an hour. Speaking of which, did you know the vows of Affirmation, the ones just before the hitting starts, come from one of our prayers?_

He hadn't, but it wasn't surprising. The knighthood is old; only in the last few centuries has it grown beyond its first role as the militant arm of the old ways. It makes sense that they'd keep the prettier-sounding promises.

Slowly prying the book from where it's wedged in the desk, Herc remembers the last time he saw Tendo with it.

"Choi, you bastard." Flowery or no, Herc takes his vows seriously, even the ones that have become little more than ceremonial fluff. "'Return the Truth to its owner with greatest haste.' Fuck. I don't need the damn book to make me come back for you."

* * *

The second time Chuck watches Hercules leave, he's too angry to be worried and too confused to be disappointed. For as long as he's know of him, he's considered Stacker Pentecost a rival. There was no one greater to surpass than the man who advised the old king, was the favorite for Pinnacle before Hercules, who rebelled and dragged Chuck's hero after him. Then, as marshal, Pentecost had become an even greater force, outmaneuvering and nearly taking the Kaiju throne more the once. If he hadn't died, Chuck would have become the man who bested him.

What Chuck hadn't realized was how close the dead man had been to Hercules. They'd grown up together- Hercules had almost married Pentecost's sister, hadn't he?- and set records as partners during the squire games. They'd shared a tent every day for almost two years once, and from Pentecost's description, the former Pinnacle hadn't been bothered by the close quarters. Far from it, if Pentecost's descriptions of snuggling during the rainy season and food sharing during the cold can trusted.

It's been years since Chuck resolved to destroy and bury his childish crush deep in the ground. He shouldn't envy a dead man's friendship with someone who hates him for the same reason Chuck made his resolution.

Wrong war, wrong side, wrong man.

Trying to rip the page was overdramatic, but it had served a second purpose, one beyond making Chuck feel better about reading the words of a man who was loved by the man Chuck wants to be loved by. It made Hercules angry, and an angry Hercules, Chuck has discovered, keeps to himself.

And that's what Chuck needs. Space between them. Enough time to figure out which way is Sydney before Hercules decides he's too much of a bother.

It's a simple and fuck up proof plan, and Chuck will get to work on it right after he finishes this last bit of bark.

Max grumbles, scratching at the door as if he'll grow hands if he tries hard enough.

"C'mere, boy," Chuck calls, surprised at the sound of his voice. Has he always sounded like that?

His body hurts, and he's more than a little angry that the bark isn't helping. Mostly. Sort of. All right, he's not actually angry, just disappointed. In something? Someone?

Max gives up with rumble. He saunters back to the bed and settles down on his belly beside the bed, gazing up at Chuck with big, sad eyes.

He probably misses Sydney and all the dogs there. Stupid dog has more friends than Chuck did.

A strange noise distracts him from the thought. If only he weren't so heavy, then he could get up and find out what it was.

Heaving a sigh, Chuck flaps a hand at his little friend. Max looks at him his father used to. "Disappointed in me, too, eh, Max? Don't worry, boy. You're not the only one. Not the only one at all, are you?"

Max doesn't reply.

Chuck isn't surprised.

* * *

You'd think, upperclass boy that he is, Chuck would know the difference between pain bark and dried surgical plants.

* * *

You'd think, kidnapped and alone with a traitor with a short temper, he'd want to keep his wits about him. (Eh- Max doesn't count. He likes Hercules too much to eat him. Partners in treachery, those two.)

* * *

You'd think, as the littlest and youngest, that he'd be better at using people, a master of looking lost and needy when he's actually luring others into a trap.

* * *

You'd think that, and you'd be wrong.

* * *

Herc briefly contemplates dropping Chuck in the cold room but quickly decides against it. No sense risking the little prince's lungs. Better just to wait the low out, make sure he doesn't hurt himself.

* * *

"Your hair's red," Chuck announces, pulling a reluctant Max closer. He drops his chin down on the top of the dog's head, watching Herc with narrowed eyes. He looks ridiculous, as far from intimidating as possible, and even the dog seems to agree, easily pushing Chuck over onto his back before curling up next to him.

"Yours is red, too," Herc points out mildly.

Chuck considers the ceiling and possibly what Herc's just said. "You're right."

"Usually am."

"How come?"

"How come you ask you ask so many questions?"

"'A lord knows everything,'" Chuck singsongs. "'He does not ask or question. There is nothing he does not know. As his flesh, a son must know all his father knows.'"

There's a trap lurking under that. Herc likes his limbs too much to risk a venture across.

"Go to sleep, princeling," he coaxes, checking a wrist for the beat of Chuck's heart- slow but steady, not a concern yet.

From the pillows, Chuck mumbles something that sounds like, "Goodnight."

Herc doesn't lean over and kiss his forehead, instead searches out the source of the impulse and uproots it.

* * *

"Hercules?"

"Yeah?"

"Why's that your name?"

"Tradition."

"Which one?"

"The firstborn are given heroes' names in the old country."

"Oh... My brother's named after a waterfall. He's not pretty like a waterfall, though."

"Go back to sleep, Chuck."

* * *

"Damn it, could you stop drooling?"

Chuck's head lolls toward him, stupid smile in full force. If Herc hadn't hated the surgical stuff before, he does now. He doesn't find Chuck's new habit endearing- he's only got the one shirt, and he'd rather wear it than wipe Chuck's face with it.

"You'd've made a good dad."

Herc shakes his head and moves away before Chuck can get more spit on him.

"Better than mine, sure. But that's not so hard. How come you don't have any?"

"Any what?"

"Kids," Chuck snaps, like he has any high ground in this conversation. Herc can barely understand half the slurred mess the kid mumbles at him. "Babies. Mini people. Lineage continuers."

"I'd need company for that, little prince."

With a sad bob of his head, Chuck blurts, "I'd have one for you if I could. A real good one. You'd love him."

Here's a side of the prince Herc hadn't seen before. Sweet, sort of, for all he's talking about getting pregnant, and more interesting than it has any right to be. "Would I, now?"

"Mmhmm. He'd get a good dad, and I'd get a good husband. Lots o' red hair in the house, though."

"You're thinking about the pinnacle, not me."

"Nuh-uh. The kingdom knight would never steal me. Sweep me off my feet, maybe, but he wouldn't grab me and run off."

True. Of all his tasks, stealing someone's child was never one of them. That's probably why he's in this situation, not enough practice.

"You're right about that, but what's in it for me?"

Chuck shrugs, sending Herc a hopeful look. "I've got a nice ass?"

A startled laugh fights free of Herc, startling both of them. Chuck recovers first, leaving Herc little time to prepare for the next, barely audible bit. "I'd keep you, too. Wouldn't sneak off or let some handsome knight take you from me. We'd always be together..."

Chuck's just about asleep, but Herc has to ask, if only to put off thinking about that last cannon-shell. "Aren't you getting ahead of yourself? What makes you think I'd want another man?"

"Th' marsh'l..." _What the hell did Chuck find in that journal?_ "An' I've wan-ned you for a real long time. You should marry me. 'M a good cook an'-"

"How 'bout you just go back to sleep, huh?" Herc proposes, cutting that offer off before it gets someone in trouble.

"Stay with me?"

"Chuck…"

"Jus' for now? Till I can sleep?"

"...Fine."

"In th' bed?"

"Don't push it."

"Please?"

Herc doesn't have it in him to argue more. He's tired, his body aches from sleeping on the floor, and there's just enough room for him beside Chuck if he stays on his side…

He manages not to jostle Chuck too much as he settles in, gets half a mumbled protest and little more. He sinks into the mattress with a sigh- the bed's better than the floor, so much better- and doesn't think about how quick Chuck is to snuggle back into him or how much clearer that last please sounded than the rest…

He'll deal with it in the morning. For now, he's warm, truly warm, with smooth skin under his palm and a solid body to hold close.


End file.
